


Strike a Good Match

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Arranged Marriage AU, Brief Pro-ANA Statement, Epilogue What Epilogue, Etiquette Training, External Limitation/Control of Food Intake, First Kiss, Flirting, Get together fic, H/D Wireless 2019, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, enemies to friends to boyfriends, making amends, matchmaking service
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-05-12 15:13:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19231663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: Calm, obedient, who work fast-paced, with good breeding—and a tiny waist—you'll bring honor to us all.Draco tries to restore honor to the Malfoy family name.Of coursePotter comes along and fucks it all up.





	1. Turn this Sow's Ear into a Silk Purse

**Author's Note:**

> Ahhh I'm so excited to share this with you guys!! I had so many struggles with this fic, and for a bit there I was really worried I wouldn't finish in time. I'm getting it in just in time! And I'm really, really pleased with how this turned out!! 
> 
> Written to the tune of [Honor to Us All](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZnUEDaeoF0Q) from _Mulan_. Part of piqwidgeon's prompt read, "Draco wanting to fit into his family’s expectations and be a good son and make them proud of him" and that's the angle I went with! 
> 
> Yes, I did watch _Mulan_ 3 times and listen to Honor to Us All for four hours straight to help this along, haha. Huge thanks to H for beta'ing and big thanks to everyone who helped cheerlead this!! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!!

_It is our great pleasure to invite you to the time-honored matchmaking program, led by Mr. and Mrs. Eyrie. As you surely know, this is a world class event for only the most elite of purebloods. Every one of our bachelors and bachelorettes is thoroughly vetted and guaranteed to please their spouses-to-be—including you._

_We are offering you the opportunity to be wed with one of our many prestigious, pureblood clients, at no cost to you._

Draco reads through the rest of the letter but takes in the details of the letter itself, rather than its content. It’s ornately written, the parchment crisp. His thoughts and body are quickly going numb. His mother’s voice has turned to nothing more than a dull droning in his ears; in his lap, his hands shake until he clenches them into fists. Even the bite of his nails against his palms is a barely-there feeling, an itch more than an ache. His throat is dry and his tongue feels like lead in his mouth.

He knows what the paper says; he’s read it too many times to count. He knows everything his mother is patiently explaining to him. The intricacies of the ceremony, all the things the letter conveniently leaves out. Things like how Draco is being offered a lifeline, a raft to keep him afloat in the post-war storm; things like the training, the classes, the endless expectations that will be thrust upon him as he essentially puts himself forward as nothing more than a pureblood trophy spouse.

The parchment shimmers and the ink sparkles; he supposes it’s meant to be enticing, alluring...he only feels sick.

“Draco,” his mother says. Her hand is almost brittle on his shoulder. The war aged her too quickly and the aftermath of it all has only made things worse. His father being in Azkaban hasn’t helped matters, either. “It’s a great honor,” she assures him gently. “A wonderful opportunity.” Her voice shakes as she speaks. Draco wonders if she knows how bald-faced her lie is.

Draco nods. He swallows and his dry throat clicks. He feels like nothing more than an empty head on a post, lifeless and useless and _stuck_. “I know,” he manages to say back, voice barely above a whisper.

“Draco, please.” His mother squeezes his shoulder.

“I know,” he says again. Louder, sharper. As if he can convince himself that he’s not absolutely terrified of the ceremony. He unclenches one fist and reaches for the quill and pot of ink on the table before him. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, dips the quill in the ink, and lets the nib hover over the deep purple, sparkling line at the bottom.

“What if…” He starts.

His mother sighs. Her gaze drops to her lap and the guilt rising in Draco’s chest threatens to suffocate him.

He hesitates a second longer, then very carefully signs his name.

 

 

 

He’s told to bring the bare minimum of clothes and personal belongings. It isn’t as though he’s got much left to his name after the war and reparations, but it still feels frightening to leave so much behind at the Manor. His mother waves him off from the Manor steps until he’s whisked away by one of the Eyrie’s lackeys. His next stop is the Eyrie home, where the training will take place.

They land smoothly on a cobblestone path leading up to an old-fashioned mansion. It’s not so dissimilar from the Manor, except in all the ways it’s unfamiliar and intimidating. The lackey guides him up the walkway and the stairs and doesn’t bother with the large brass knocker before they slip into the foyer.

“I’ll take those, Mr. Malfoy,” the lackey says with a gesture to his two measly bags. “They’ll be in your room. You’ll be shown to your room after you’ve had lunch with Mr. and Mrs. Eyrie.”

Draco nods in thanks and lets the lackey take his bags; the other man apparates away and at the same moment, an older woman in a long gown sweeps in from another room.

“Mr. Malfoy,” she says in a voice that’s cracking like her wrinkled skin. “I’m Mrs. Eyrie. How kind of you to join us.”

“It’s an honor to be invited,” he says, reaching for the hand she extends and brushing a kiss over her knuckles.

She laughs softly. “My, we won’t have much to train you on at all, will we? Such a gentleman.”

“My father raised me right,” Draco agrees. The words taste a bit sour in his mouth.

There’s an odd glint in her eyes as her hand drops to her side. “We’ll see, won’t we?” There’s a split second of thick tension before Mrs. Eyrie speaks again. “Come along! We have tea and sandwiches in the dining room. You’ve signed the contract so we have no doubt you’re well aware of our rules, but we find it never hurts to have a little one on one time.”

“Of course,” he says and follows her back to the room she entered from. Much like the Manor, there’s a long dining table surrounded by plush chairs. At the head of the table sits a man, Draco assumes Mr. Eyrie.

“Mr. Malfoy,” he announces in a loud and stern voice. “Please, have a seat.” He gestures to a seat a few chairs away from himself, and Draco nods before sliding into the chair. “You seem tense.”

Draco tries not to tense up worse at the mention. “Just nervous,” he admits, with his best attempt at a charming grin.

Mr. Eyrie smiles back. “We’ll fix that,” he says, and while it’s surely not meant to be—it feels strangely threatening. “Now,” Mr. Eyrie continues with a wave of his wand; the contract Draco signed appears on the table at the same time finger sandwiches appear on their plates. “You’ve read this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you understand the contents?”

“I do, sir.”

Mr. Eyrie nods. “Good, good. You’ll have a room here. No visitors are permitted in your room. I understand your mother is still under house arrest?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll be allowed floo calls and to send letters. You’ll be allowed to leave on planned excursions, which will be discussed at length during the commencement party. You will not be allowed to leave these grounds unsupervised.”

Draco nods, and hurries to add when Mr. Eyrie eyes him sternly, “Yes, sir.”

“Meal times will be announced via house elf. Wardrobes have been provided, for things such as parties and other ceremonies held here. You’re welcome to wear what you like when you’re simply around the manor.”

“Thank you, sir,” Draco says

“Very good. Now, let’s eat, and then you may retire to your room.”

Draco nods, murmurs another thanks, and starts on the sandwiches.

 

 

 

The commencement party is only a few days later, and it reminds Draco of parties his father used to throw at the Manor. The Eyrie mansion is stuffed to the gills with people, most of whom Draco doesn’t know.

He’s met a few of the other people in his position, all of them given rooms throughout the house, but there’s a certain tension that keeps them all from interacting with each other. Also milling around the house are the bachelors and bachelorettes—the high-status clients, the ones who make the money and bring honor to the bloodline. There are other notable purebloods present as well, and hordes of reporters.

And, Draco catches from the corner of his eye about a half hour into the party, just after announcements, also present is a very familiar mop of black hair.

Draco isn’t currently engaged in a conversation so he doesn’t have anyone to excuse himself to as he makes a polite beeline across the ballroom to where he can see Potter. He’s leaning against a table and sipping at a flute of champagne and looks absolutely out of place. Oh, sure, he’s dressed _nice_. But in _muggle_ clothes, a sweater over a button-down that could use a good ironing charm thrown at it. He stands out in the sea of jewel-toned robes and lavish gowns, and Draco can’t help the pitchy tone in his voice as he finally ends up toe to toe with the other man.

“Potter? _Please_ don’t tell me you’re one of the bachelors, _especially_ not dressed like that.”

He laughs. It’s an ugly, scrunched-up-face sort of thing. “God, no. I’m here for _The Quibbler_. I’m doing an exposé on this barbaric trend.”

“It’s not a trend, you infant. It’s a time-honored tradition.” So what if Draco’s voice shakes a little? So what if he can’t quite summon the same conviction his father might have? “It’s an honor,” he adds insistently, echoing what Mr. Eyrie said earlier.

Potter laughs but it’s not really aimed at Draco—almost laughing _for_ him, rather. “If you say so, Malfoy.”

All of Draco’s annoyance goes up like smoke in his chest. Potter’s blasé attitude is surprisingly refreshing. “You work for _The Quibbler_?”

Potter preens. “Sure do. It’s thriving.”

“I never pegged you as much of a writer,” Draco drawls, unable to help the sneering edge in his tone.

However, unlike their school years, Potter seems unaffected. “Oh, I’m not much of one. But people _love_ to talk to the Chosen One, don’t they? I can get details almost no one else can. Luna helps me put it into something coherent when it comes time to run an issue.”

Draco nods along. “I’m surprised the Eyries allowed an exposé from _The Quibbler_ …”

“Chosen One,” Potter says again, with a bright grin.

“Prat,” Draco replies swiftly.

Potter shrugs. “Yeah,” he agrees. “You’re here as…?”

Draco’s ears burn. _A glorified trophy husband_ , he wants to say, surprised by the venom in his own thoughts. He shakes it off. “I’ve been given the honor of participating in the ceremony to be married off.”

“Ah,” Potter says. “Restore the name, and all that.”

Draco stiffens. “Yes.”

“Your father’s probably delighted about that.”

“He’s quite proud,” Draco says with a defiant tilt of his chin. A letter from his mother had told him so, shortly after he first arrived at the Eyrie’s.

“How’s your mum?” Potter asks in a sudden shift.

“Er.” Draco blinks. “She’s well. Still under house arrest, but I’m not sure she’d leave the house even if she could.”

Potter shakes his head. “I tried to get her a lighter sentence.”

Draco knows this; it doesn’t stop the skip in his heart at the admission. “She appreciates it.”

Potter levels him with a look—not scrutinizing, not analyzing, not patronizing. Just a look, a spark of emerald green. “I think you might just make this interesting, Malfoy.”

Draco isn’t quite sure how to respond to that, and he’s saved from having to think of something by Mr. Eyrie calling out “Mr. Malfoy!” and clapping a hand on Draco’s shoulder.

“Spending time with the reporters, eh? Want a taste of that fame?” Mr. Eyrie is far more jovial and brighter here and now than he’s been at any of the somber lunches they’ve had so far.

“No, sir. Just catching up with a classmate,” Draco hurries to say.

“Splendid.” Mr. Eyrie eyes Potter up and down and sniffs. “If you’ll excuse us, Mr. Potter, I have a client who’s simply dying to meet Mr. Malfoy.”

Potter nods but there’s a tension in his face that wasn’t there before. “Course, Mr. Eyrie.”

The casual response clearly grates on Mr. Eyrie’s nerves; as Draco lets himself be led away, he barely resists the urge to look back at Potter.

 

Draco spends the rest of the night being guided around by Mr. Eyrie, or Mrs. Eyrie, or one of the lackeys to be introduced to the various clients ready to marry his poor, unfortunate arse. They’re all the usual pureblood type (haughty, stiff-backed, elegant) but their ages and genders vary wildly. _Beggars can’t be choosers_ , Draco thinks after the fifth woman to stare pityingly at him and again, after the seventh white-haired, wrinkled man to leer at him.

By the time the commencement party ends, Draco falls into bed with a panic starting in his chest. He wants to write his mother or floo her, even though he knows the fireplace is only accessible by one of the Eyries or a servant; Draco would have to ring someone to set up a call. He can’t do this, he knows; he already feels like he’s drowning and training hasn’t even begun. He’s going to have to go on _dates_ with these people, people he hardly knows.

Draco strips out of his jade green robes while still sprawled on his bed and leaves them in a clump on the floor to pick up in the morning. Stripped down to his pants, he feels like he can breathe a little easier, but not by much.

He closes his eyes and covers his face with his hands. He hasn’t felt a panic like this since...since the Dark Lord tasked him with killing Dumbledore, as insane as it sounds. It’s an impossible comparison—but both have felt like impossible tasks.

Draco has to bring honor to the Malfoy name again, undo what he and his father have done. One would think saving the Chosen One’s life—as his mother did—would be enough. But not in the eyes of the pureblood community. If anything, saving the hero of the Wizarding world only seemed to add further tarnish to the Malfoys, and the absurdity of such a thing makes Draco sick to his stomach.

Speaking of…

Draco shakes his head. _Honestly. Potter, of all people_. It had been the only amusing part of Draco’s night. It had been the only part that hadn’t felt forced or fake.

Draco finally crawls under the covers and buries his head against the silky pillow. He lost sight of Potter after Mr. Eyrie had taken him away; he wonders if Potter had escaped long before the party finally started to wind down, or if he was just deliberately staying away from Draco.

 _Can’t blame him,_ Draco thinks, although that doesn’t seem likely. Potter had almost seemed friendly, when they talked. Like he was enjoying himself, even.

Draco falls asleep grinning.


	2. With Good Fortune and a Great Hairdo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note: there is a statement in this chapter that could be seen/interpreted as pro-ANA and is related to the 'External Limitation/Control of Food Intake' tag. Huge thanks to Le for pointing this out so I could give proper warning, just in case!

It turns out he doesn’t have to wait long to see Potter again.

He’s there at the training session the morning after the commencement party, along with other reporters.

Draco’s ears burn as he files in with the rest of the spouses-to-be. He’s in more casual clothing than the night before but it’s still far more extravagant than he’d prefer to wear while just inside, sitting down for a lesson. The shirt is silver and crisp, buttoned up high on his throat; the slacks are plain black and a hair too small, and Draco struggles not to shift once he sits at the dining room table.

 _Allowed to wear whatever you like around the house my arse,_ Draco thinks with a silent sigh. This morning when he woke to find his outfit laid out for him, Draco resigned himself to not ever unpacking the few personal clothes he brought. He’s snapped from his spot by Mrs. Eyrie clearing her throat.

“Since this is the first lesson, the reporters have been permitted to stay. They will not be at all future lessons, but may sit in from time to time.” Mrs. Eyrie announces all of this from the head of the table. Mr. Eyrie is nowhere to be found. “Today, we will be learning something you should all already be familiar with. Dining!”

Potter—and Draco knows it’s him without looking—snorts and covers it up with an awkward cough. Mrs. Eyrie stares at him for a long beat before resuming.

Draco goes through the motions of selecting the proper silverware for each particular hypothetical dish. All of the trainees seem to do so without issue, aside from some brief seconds of hesitation here and there. The room is unbearably quiet aside from the delicate _chink_ of silverware being picked up and set down. The only other sound is Mrs. Eyrie telling them the dish they’d be having and humming thoughtfully.

It feels like it goes on for hours; Draco’s eyes are heavy by the time it’s over and he’s worried his stomach might start growling—he only had some fruit for breakfast, and hadn’t expected this lesson to take so long.

“Very good, everyone!” Mrs. Eyrie says as they set down their dessert forks. “It’s very reassuring to see how well you’re all trained.”

The wording makes Draco want to bristle; his gaze flickers slightly to Potter, looking bored in the corner, and their eyes meet. Exaggeratedly, Potter rolls his eyes and it takes far too much of Draco’s willpower not to laugh.

“You’re all dismissed. Please feel free to get yourselves a snack from the kitchen or mingle with each other. Your next lesson will be in four hours.” With that, Mrs. Eyrie excuses herself in a way that continues to be unsettling every time. Abrupt, slipping from the room like she couldn’t possibly be around them any longer.

Draco stands and is gratified to see he’s not the only one somewhat scrambling for the kitchen. He hangs back even as his stomach starts to growl and is only partly surprised when Potter falls in step with him. For a moment, he worries it’ll look strange, Potter lingering around him so blatantly; Draco’s fears dissipate when he realizes other reporters are approaching other trainees as well.

“Potter,” Draco says politely.

“That was, quite literally, the dullest thing I’ve ever experienced in my life,” Potter says by way of greeting.

“Potter!” Draco snaps, chiding.

“Isn’t it impolite to call me by just my last name?” Potter teases.

“Not if you’re a prat,” Draco hisses as they finally make it into the kitchen. An array of small snacks is spread across the countertop. All things that won’t quite fill him up, but won’t leave him starving before lunch, either. Draco grabs a plate and picks up tarts and treats sparingly. He’s self-conscious for all of ten seconds before he catches sight of Potter’s plate which is heavily laden with snacks.

Potter shakes his head. “That all seemed utterly pointless.”

“Most of us were raised properly,” Draco explains with an edge of annoyance in his tone. “These are beginner things. I imagine they’ll get into the more complex things as time goes on. Certainly they’ll weed out those who can’t shape up.”

“And you’re still going to tell me you don’t think this is barbaric?” Potter says as he eats a small lemon tart in one bite. There are crumbs in his scruffy, short beard.

“It’s tradition,” Draco retorts.

“Doesn’t mean it’s not _also_ barbaric.” Potter pushes another tart around on his plate, one Draco knows is a pureblood delicacy. Draco reaches out and snatches it off his plate; it’s not his favorite kind of tart, but Potter clearly isn’t going to eat it. “I mean, this?” Potter gestures to the spread of food. “This is hardly anything.”

“We already ate breakfast. It’s improper to over indulge.”

Potter’s gaze darkens. “It’s absurd.”

Draco leans back, startled. The words already feel stale in his mouth, but Draco gets the feeling he’s going to be saying them _far_ too often in the coming weeks. “It’s tradition.”

Potter sets his plate down. “Doesn’t mean it’s the right thing to do.”

 

 

 

Just as Draco thought, the training starts off easily enough. It’s things like dining etiquette, how to dress for certain events, hosting skills and the like. All things his father instilled in him from a young age, so it’s easy enough for Draco to excel.

That doesn’t mean he enjoys it though. Especially with not seeing Potter—who, despite all logic to the contrary, is actually rather enjoyable to be around. True to Mrs. Eyrie’s word, the reporters aren’t permitted in training sessions often. They’re sometimes brought for interviews, of course—both with the clients and the trainees. Draco thinks Potter might have even got an interview Mr. Eyrie, and he can only imagine how that went.

All in all, Draco comes to appreciate the reprieve the side interviews offer, especially as breaks from training. He gets comfortable with the routine: training with the Eyries, dates with clients, interviews with Potter.

The first group outing is different.

Draco, yet again swathed in elegant fabrics that he’d never normally wear for a day out and about, refuses to let his surprise show when Potter’s waiting in the group outside with the clients and other reporters.

“Today,” Mr. Eyrie says, “We’ll be going to Diagon Alley. You’ll be welcome to roam and buy what you like. It is expected that you get to know the clients if at all possible. Please remember to be respectful at all times.”

Draco lets out a low breath. His robe is too thick for this weather but it had been chosen for him. He aches to undo the top button—but he knows better. He and the other trainees pair up with butlers to apparate, and Draco barely catches Potter’s gaze before he twirls on the spot.

Diagon Alley is odd, these days. Draco doesn’t come often since he isn’t exactly publicly favored. But here and now, in a large group, he feels more invisible than ever. It’s almost soothing. He looks around as they all walk in a sort of herd. Some clients and trainees have split off, and the reporters are slowly but surely picking through the crowd for people to interview. Some of the storefronts have changed and that’s far more interesting to Draco than the clients or reporters; it’s also the only thing that distracts him from how he’s cooking in his robes.

“May I?” A voice drawls. Draco looks over to see one of the clients extending an elbow. _Henry? Harold?_ Draco thinks; he’s almost ashamed he can’t remember. It’s a well-taught shame, a voice sounding suspiciously like his father in the back of his head saying _You know better than that_. Smiling politely, Draco wraps a hand around the curve of the man’s elbow.

“Thank you,” Draco says. “How are you today?”

“I’m good. It’s a lovely day.” Henry-Harold-Whoever carries on and Draco listens diligently. It’s not especially interesting, but it never is. When the man finally asks, “And you?” Draco almost can’t think of anything to say.

“I’m well,” Draco says slowly. “Enjoying the lessons.” It’s a lie through his teeth and somewhere behind him, he thinks he might hear a familiar laugh. “It’s refreshing.”

The man laughs. “That’s good to hear. I must say, I was surprised to see you participating on this side of things.”

“Oh?” Draco’s heart thuds unpleasantly hard in his chest.

“I find the Malfoy family to still be quite impressive.”

Draco can’t help his surprise. “Really?”

“Really,” _Henry_ , Draco’s sure, Henry agrees. “You and your father served a great purpose.”

The tone in the man’s voice is instantly recognizable and Draco’s stomach lurches.

“Mr. Malfoy!” Potter shouts. It’s inelegant and awkward, drawing stares including from Mr. Eyrie, but Potter doesn’t seem to care. “Can I get a quick word for _The Quibbler_?”

Draco’s mouth moves but no words come out until he catches Mr. Eyrie glaring their way. “I’m afraid I’m a bit preoccupied,” he says, patting at Henry’s arm.

“No, no, that’s quite alright.” Henry looks paler, and has he always been so short? Potter isn’t a tall man but he seems to loom. “A fine establishment, _The Quibbler_.”

“Thanks,” Potter says without sounding very thankful.

Henry (fuck, maybe it _is_ Harold) nods and scurries off. Draco watches him sidle up to another trainee and pins Potter with a glare.

“What was that?”

“Let’s get some ice cream?”

Draco blinks. “Excuse me?”

“For the interview. I don’t feel like doing it around everyone else.” Potter nods to the shop at the corner. “C’mon.”

Draco looks back at Mr. Eyrie, who only sighs and shoos him away, before following after Potter. The doors above them chime as they slip inside and the chill air of the shop is immediately soothing to Draco’s overheated skin.

“You look like you’re about to roast in that robe,” Potter notes as they walk up to the counter.

“It’s proper,” Draco sighs although his heart’s not in the words.

They go through the motions of ordering, and Draco doesn’t even protest when Harry doubles the size of their orders. He’s not hungry so much as he’s craving something sweet without a catch, like using the proper fork or having to identify all the notes of flavor in order to be a good host.

“That bloke was a dick,” Potter says as they sit.

“Potter!” Draco snaps again. “You can’t—?”

“We’re alone,” Harry says. “I already cast a charm over us so no one even thinks to look this way.”

Draco relaxes slightly. “Oh.”

“I just get sick of being around all those twats.”

“I’m one of those twats,” Draco points out as he scoops an inelegantly large amount of ice cream onto his flimsy little utensil.

“I’m starting to think you’re not, Malfoy.”

“I’m a perfectly good pureblood, of _course_ I’m one of those twats.”

“A perfectly good pureblood probably wouldn’t have looked like they got hit with a bat bogey hex the minute someone mentioned Tom Riddle.”

Draco’s stomach curdles.

“And, a proper pureblood probably wouldn’t look so damn bored.”

“Try and say that five times fast,” Draco says instead of a real reply. “Why are you even reporting on this, if you hate it so much?”

Potter pushes his two flavors around until they’re a running, mixed mess. Draco wrinkles his nose. “ _Because_ I hate it so much. Because I think it’s ludicrous to try and regain some insane idea of “social status” when there’s clearly bigger things to be worrying about. Worrying about things like _status_ and _bloodlines_ is how we ended up with two wizarding wars.”

Draco sits back in his seat and focuses on eating his ice cream. One bite of coffee, one bite of cherry tobacco. Back and forth.

“And, you’re really not a twat like the rest of them. I’ll have you know I tried to interview some of the others, and they’re all dull as doorknobs.”

Draco laughs softly. “It would be improper to be too…”

“Too what?” Potter cuts him off. “Too human?”

Draco snorts. “So dramatic, Potter.”

“Still not going to call me Harry, huh?”

The sudden change in subject nearly feels like whiplash. “You don’t call me Draco,” he points out.

“I’ve been thinking I ought to start. I’ve been working on the start of my expose and it’s just exhausting to keep calling you Malfoy.”

“It _is_ my name.”

“It’s not who you are, though.”

Draco’s taken aback yet again. Even so, he finds himself saying, “You can call me Draco in your silly little article.”

“And in person?”

Draco considers it. “Not in front of the Eyrie’s. It’s seen as—”

“Improper, I get it.”

“Very good, Harry,” Draco says, delighting in the surprise on the other man’s face. “There might be hope for you yet.”

 

 

 

“Things are going well,” Draco says to the ember face of his mother in the floo. “I’m not sure I’ve caught anyone’s eye yet.” _Except maybe Potter’s_ , he thinks, and resolves to ignore the thrill in his stomach over such a thought.

His mother smiles. “I’m sure that’s not true, dear. Just give it time, it’s still early.” Draco knows if she could, his mother would reach out and pat his hand. Now more than ever, he craves the comforting touch. The only contact he gets these days are polite kisses on cheeks and his arm curled around some bachelor’s elbow.

“We’ll see, I suppose,” Draco allows.

A cough from the doorway catches his attention. It’s Mrs. Eyrie, with that same pitying sort of expression she always seems to wear.

“I have to go, mother.”

“So soon?”

Draco nods as he looks away from Mrs. Eyrie. “We’ll speak soon.”

“Alright.” His mother waves and Draco returns the gesture before the floo connection closes. He rises and brushes the wrinkles from his knees. “Am I needed?”

She nods. “One of our suitors would like to speak with you about a proper date.”

Draco blinks. “Oh, of course.” He looks down at his robes. They’re a deep sapphire blue, not quite as dressy as the things he’s been going out in lately, but sufficient for a conversation, probably.

“He’s downstairs in the dining hall.” With that, Mrs. Eyrie turns on her heel and leaves.

Draco brushes a few more wrinkles from the front of his robes and then strides out of his room.

 

 

 

He’s still reeling the following day when the Eyries inform him along with the other spouses-to-be that they’ll be doing interviews today. He’s not surprised when he ends up in a room with Potter, looking scruffier than ever.

“Draco,” Potter says as he stands, even going so far to shake Draco’s hand.

Draco blinks, astonished. “Harry.”

They sit at the table in the center of the room. A tea tray appears and two cups fill up with tea; Draco can tell just by looking that his cup is doctored up to his liking. He reaches for it immediately and takes a long sip.

“So,” Potter says, looking amused when Draco finally sets his cup down. “How are things going?” Beside him, a quick notes quill flits across a notebook.

“Good. As expected.” Draco fiddles with the handle of his cup. “The potential spouses all seem lovely.” It’s hard not to say clients, since he knows that’s what they are, but he also knows it wouldn’t read well in print.

“Any suitors taking an interest in you yet?”

Draco, despite himself, blushes. “I recently agreed to a date with one of them, although I don’t know if I should reveal more than that.”

Potter shakes his head. Abruptly, the quill stops and sinks to rest on the table. “Alright, off the record.”

Draco sits back. “Pardon?”

“You’re stiffer than usual.” Potter leans forward and, even crazier, he looks concerned. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes?” Draco swallows. “I mean, it’s as expected. Things are fine.”

“Draco,” said in an imploring tone, far friendlier than Potter has any right to be.

“They’re all twats, what do you want me to say? I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”

Potter doesn’t look as pleased as Draco expected he would. “You’re not telling it to me on record.”

“Of course not! I’m trying to _better_ my reputation, not send it completely down the bloody loo.”

“But you could shed some light on how ridiculous this whole thing is,” Potter insists.

“It’s not as if anything...illegal is happening here. It’s all perfectly legal and sane.”

“Hardly,” Potter scoffs. “Besides, legal doesn’t mean it’s right, or that it’s not better off forgotten.”

Draco clenches his fists in his robes. Today, they’re a sharp white threaded with gold. They’re beautiful, but Draco can’t help feeling like a porcelain doll, breakable and sitting too close to the edge of a shelf.

“I…” He’s at a loss for words. He doesn’t want to give into the ache in his chest; he wants to make his parents proud.

“It’s alright,” Potter says. He sits back. “I understand, y’know. What it’s like to feel like everyone is counting on you.”

The quick notes quill starts to rise again, but Draco reaches across the table and pushes it back down. “It’s not barbaric,” he says.

Potter leans forward again and it brings their faces almost obscenely close. Draco leans away slightly and lets his hands fall back into his lap.

“It’s not barbaric, or illegal. There’s nothing inherently wrong about it. And some of the clients are very nice and kind. Not all of them were the man you overheard when we were in Diagon.”

“Tom Riddle supporters, you mean.”

Draco swallows. “Some are just favorable of tradition, and that’s why they’re here.”

Potter nods. “What about the one you’ve got a date with?”

“His name is Edward. He’s insufferable, but not unkind.”

“Can’t imagine two insufferable prats doing well together.”

Draco glares.

“I’m teasing,” Potter says with an easy grin. “Are you looking forward to the date?”

Draco shrugs. “Not especially. But I’d rather go on a date and get out of here for a while than stay cooped up for much longer.”

Something sparks in Potter’s green eyes, but Draco blames it on the sun moving in the sky. “Uh huh,” Potter says. “I think we ought to get back to the regular interview.”

Draco is startled by the sudden change but he’s feeling hot under the collar and he feels dissected under Potter’s intense stare. So he nods. “Alright.”

 

 

 

Draco’s changed into his sleepwear when there’s a tapping on his window. He turns to the large bay windows that stay shut at all times except for the rare moments Draco dares to open them for fresh air. He looks back at his bedroom door which is shut tight.

He reaches out and turns the doorknob on the ornate door only to reveal an empty balcony. He takes a hesitant step onto the concrete; it chills his feet as he pads toward the edge. He hears the soft tap of feet hitting the ground before he hears the swish of a cloak.

Draco turns and his eyes zero in on the invisibility cloak draped over Potter’s arm. Draco rushes to him and shoves at his chest. “What are you doing here?”

“Getting you out of here. No sense in being cooped up, right? Throw on some proper clothes.”

“I’ve already gotten ready for bed!”

“So? It isn’t like you never snuck out of the dorms.”

“That was school, Potter. Vastly different from this.”

“Lighten up, Draco.” It’s then that Draco realizes in Potter’s other’s hand is a broom. “Scared, Malfoy?”

Draco swallows and finally meets Potter’s gaze. “You wish.”

 

“This is your grand idea?” Draco teases, although he can’t really argue that it is _great_. A large field, summer winds, no one else in the world and a perfect view of the stars.

“You’re enjoying it,” Potter retorts. “Better than that posh bedroom, isn’t it?”

Draco sighs. “Much,” he agrees. He stretches slightly and wonders if he could fall asleep here, at least for a little bit.

“I didn’t always want to work for _The Quibbler_ , you know.”

“I never would’ve guessed.”

“I didn’t always want to save the world, either.”

Draco bites the inside of his cheek. Potter continues.

“There were times I just wanted to say screw it and give up, but I didn’t. Even when it felt like I was going to get crushed under the weight of expectations.”

Draco sits up and looks at Potter, who’s staring at the stars. “Harry…”

“This whole bachelor bit? Restoring honor? It’s not the same. The fate of the world isn’t at stake here. Your happiness is.”

“And my parents, them and their happiness,” Draco interrupts.

“Your parents made their choices,” Potter counters. “And yeah, you made yours, but that doesn’t mean you’re meant to be picking up _all_ the broken pieces. Your parents only have themselves to blame if they’re unhappy. Or, really, only your father to blame.” He grins faintly but it falls quickly.

“It’s not that simple.”

“Nothing ever is.” Potter finally looks at him. Then softer, “I’m not saying it is. I just think you ought to think about yourself a bit more than doing what you think your father wants. Your father is an arsehole. You shouldn’t care what he wants.”

Draco doesn’t say anything. Potter props himself up on his elbow.

“You don’t have to listen to me,” Potter points out.

“Then why are you still talking?” Draco says, not unkindly.

Potter grins again.


	3. Help Me not to Make a Fool of Me

Like Potter said, it’s not easy.

Draco doesn’t suddenly decide after one night out that he’s going to be done with the whole matchmaking thing. He wants to, but he can’t bring himself to pull the trigger quite yet. He goes on his date with Edward, and it’s fine. Boring, a bit awkward, nothing special. He goes on a few other dates with other suitors but nothing clicks.

Slowly but surely, he starts to see some of his fellow trophy spouses married off. They leave the Eyrie house and the suitors who liked them stop coming by. The house grows lonelier and lonelier, and Draco can’t tell if it’s worse or better.

The one saving grace is at least he’s not the last spouse-to-be hanging around. There’s only five of them now, and they’re all a sad bunch. Most reporters have stopped coming by—except, of course, Potter. Who only ever interviews Draco, which seems to be getting on the Eyrie’s nerves.

“Draco, dear?”

Draco blinks to see his mother’s concerned face staring at him from the floo. “Sorry. Distracted.”

His mother smiles.

“Mother…” He trails off and bites his bottom lip. “Would you be...alright, if I didn’t find a suitor?”

His mother looks stunned. “Draco, is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine,” he says maybe a little sharper than needed. “I just don’t think this is going to work, that’s all.”

“The Eyrie’s are a renowned pureblood family, of course it’ll work. Their methods are foolproof.”

Draco shakes his head. “I don’t think it’ll work for me. I don’t want to be miserable for the rest of my life.”

The words are harsh and blunt and his mother looks even more taken aback. “But, Draco, your father…”

“He ruined our lives.”

“He’s still your father.”

Draco sighs. “I just don’t think this is right, for me. I’m sorry.” He shuts the floo connection before his mother can say anything else, and only feels a little guilty.

He checks the grandfather clock in the corner of the room and when he realizes he still has a few minutes before someone comes to shut off his floo connection for the rest of the night, he almost calls Potter.

But one act of rebellion is enough for today, he thinks, as he shuts down the connection himself and stands. One step at a time.

 

 

 

Most of Draco’s rebellion comes at night—courtesy of Potter, of course. He seems to have an unending list of ideas on where to drag Draco:

 

On a rooftop, somewhere a bit chillier but where the skies are just as clear. Dotted with a few fluffy clouds, it’s all midnight blue-black above them. Draco feels a bit like he might slide off the side of the roof at any moment, but then he looks at Potter and thinks, crazily enough, _I’ll be just fine._

“How are Granger and Weasley, these days?” Draco asks when he decides the silence has stretched too long.

Potter doesn’t seem surprised by the question. “Married, thinking about starting a family soon.”

Draco blinks. “Already?”

“You’re one to talk,” Potter says with a laugh. “In some insane program to get married off before you’re even in your twenties.”

Draco scowls. “It’s...different.”

“Marriage of convenience,” Potter says, and Draco hates his knowing, smug tone. Mostly because it’s accurate. “They’re happy,” he continues smoothly. “Hermione’s working her way up at the Ministry, and Ron’s taken over the Hogsmeade branch of the joke shop.”

“Thought he wanted to be an auror.” Draco’s ears burn at the admission.

Potter grins, the side of his mouth quirking up ever so slightly. “He did, for a time. But I realized that it wasn’t what I wanted, and after a row or twelve, Ron came to his senses too.” Potter pauses long enough for a strong gust of wind to roll over them both. “He thought I was mental, giving up a guaranteed spot in the aurors. But I’d been fighting all my life. Fighting _evil_ all my life.”

He sighs and Draco finds himself hanging on every word.

“Ron blew up. Still got a nasty temper.” Potter’s tone is fond. “Didn’t speak to me for a time, until Hermione set him right. Happened a few more times before he dropped out of auror training and took up managing the business with George. He’s happy as I’ve ever seen him, these days.”

Draco lets out a heavy breath and it draws Potter’s gaze to him.

“You could be happy too, y’know.”

Draco only replies, “It’s late, better get back.”

 

“You know what I miss?” Potter asks one night when he’s whisked Draco away.

They’re strolling about some muggle city now, and Draco feels spectacularly out of place, particularly because he’s wearing a pair of Potter’s too-short jeans and an overly large t-shirt with some ghastly design on it. Nevermind the fact that he had to change in the loo at the tube, and nevermind the fact that his robes are shrunken and hidden in Potter’s pocket.

Merlin’s beard, what has Draco’s life become?

“What do you miss?” Draco asks, belatedly. He can’t help being a bit caught up in his own thoughts. For the unsettling stillness of the manor it’s terrible for finding a place to simply _think_ —and despite the crazy bustling of the city, his head has never felt clearer.

“Dueling.” Potter’s got that wicked grin on. It’s the same one Draco recalls seeing at Hogwarts, on rare, lucky occasions.

“Mm,” Draco hums. “I don’t miss it, much.” His lack of a wand burns a hole in the pocket of his jeans, just as it burns holes in all his robes, particularly when he watches anyone do magic. “They took my wand. Snapped it.”

Potter stops. “I thought it was only withheld.”

Draco shakes his head. “The Ministry snapped it shortly after mother’s trial finished. I’m permitted to get a new one within two years, but...It won’t be the same.”

Potter, when Draco chances a glance at him, looks positively incensed. “I _told_ them that was unfair, that it was too much. I told them without that bloody wand, we wouldn’t have won the damn war!”

They stop walking abruptly and Potter stops shouting. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.

“I fucking…”

Draco lays a hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright.” It’s not; sometimes he misses his wand like a phantom limb. But he’s come to terms with it, accepted it, and wills that into his tone.

Potter looks like he wants to argue, but Draco speaks first.

“Weren’t you going to show me something? I recall you describing it as greasy and awful and absolutely perfect, I believe.”

Potter’s smile is hesitant but spreads easily.

 

“I never did apologize,” Draco says, almost absently, as they poke at their ice creams. Earlier that day, one of the other women in the house left to be married off. They’re down to three, now.

Being the Chosen One—and said Chosen One’s friend, of sorts—has its perks. Like being let into the ice cream shop at Diagon after hours, as long as they promise to clean up after themselves and to not tell a soul.

“For what?” Potter asks. He’s currently trying to scoop three different flavors of ice cream and a chunk of banana onto his spoon.

“School. Being a prat. Making your life miserable. All the usual things.”

Potter looks up. He’s dripping the sweet cream flavor onto his jumper. “I forgave you a long time ago, Draco.”

Draco tries and fails not to looks taken aback, and Potter clearly takes that as a sign to continue.

“After the war, and before the trials began, there was still so much going on. I realized I had been a pawn in someone else’s game—that loads of us were just pawns to be moved about and change the game as needed.” He stabs his spoon softly at the dark chocolate, pistachio, sweet cream lump of ice cream. Honestly, his taste is _strange_. “You were the same.”

“For a drastically different chess player,” Draco says. “Playing a drastically different kind of game.”

“Not so much.” Potter shakes his head. “We both got manipulated into things. Some things we would’ve done regardless and some things we would’ve rather not done at all.” Potter sets the cup of ice cream aside and Draco feels a brief pang of guilt to have ruined the otherwise jovial mood. “So, I realized there’s not much to be done for all of it except...Accept it, and move on.”

Draco spoons a mouthful of mint chocolate chip into his mouth to keep from speaking.

Potter notices, of bloody course he does. “You’ve got a bit,” he starts, and then he’s reaching across the little table they’re sat at, and brushing at the ice cream at the corner of Draco’s mouth with his thumb.

Draco’s breathing hitches, and he promptly chokes on a chunk of chocolate chip. “Fuck,” he rasps, swallowing frantically and coughing. Potter stands quickly and comes around to slap at his back until his airway clears, leaving Draco only mildly gasping for air instead of desperately doing so. “Fuck, Potter.”

The other man sits down across from him again with a grin. “Not my fault your posh twat self can’t eat properly.”

Draco flips him two fingers and steals a bite of all three flavors, just because he can.

 

“We really shouldn’t be doing this,” Draco says. They’re in the same field from the first time Potter smuggled him out of the manor. “I’m going to get caught one of these days.”

“We’ll go on the lam, then.” Potter pulls a bottle of wine, something cheap and simple, from the rucksack he brought along. From that same bag he pulls out two long-stemmed wine glasses and makes a show of uncorking the bottle with his wand and filling both their glasses to the brim. He knows full well this is improper etiquette, and the look on his face clearly tells Draco, Potter doesn’t give a damn.

“Is that your plan? When this all goes tits up, you’ll just whisk me away one last time, somewhere fanciful where nothing bad ever happens?”

Potter leans back, one hand sinking into the soft grass beneath them. He sips at his wine. “Maybe,” he replies. “Be nice, wouldn’t it?”

Draco takes a long drink of his own glass to stall. “Yes,” he admits. He looks out to the field instead of at Potter directly. “It certainly couldn’t be worse than what I’m doing now.”

“I’ve got experience living on the run,” Potter adds jovially. “We’ll be fine.”

Draco shakes his head. “You know something I still can’t figure out?” He tips back and drinks half his wine while waiting for Potter to answer.

“What’s that?” Potter asks when he evidently decides he can’t guess.

“Why you bothered to keep talking to me, after the commencement ceremony.”

“I told you,” Potter says. “All the other folks were dull as shite.”

“So why bother with this story at all, then? I’m certainly not giving you the journalism you’re looking for. This article is going to be absolute rubbish.” Draco stares down into the white wine. It’s sparkling and too sweet and while Draco would bet it’s not very strong, the overly sugary alcohol with a mostly empty stomach is going to bite him in the arse quickly.

“You are giving me the journalism I need,” Potter replies. “Better yet, you’re giving me what I _want_. I told you, people are all too happy to speak with the Chosen One, but that doesn’t mean they’re telling me the truth. Embellishments, sometimes outright lies, I’ve seen quite a lot. But there’s none of that with you, aside from your god-awful attempts to pretend you actually like this whole thing.”

Draco glares.

Potter turns to look at him. He looks carefree and Draco leans closer, although there’s hardly much space between them now. “I’ve just been trying to live a life that makes me happy, yeah? After everything that’s happened, I think I’m owed that much.”

“And that somehow involves talking to me?”

“And dragging you off on silly little adventures, yes.” Potter’s smile is dazzling, white and crooked. His beard has gotten a little longer since this whole thing started. “Hermione did always tell me I was unhealthily obsessed with you.”

Draco’s reply, “Pansy might’ve said the same to me, daily,” is barely above a whisper.

“What a pair we make then, don’t we?”

Draco nods. He’s almost positive he’s not imagining it when Potter’s gaze flicks down to his lips. But before either of them can do anything about it a gust of wind blows by and spills the remnants in the wine bottle all over them both.

“This is all your fault,” Draco tells him seriously as they stand there, more wet than either of them would care to be, holding glasses of shitty wine.

“Suppose so,” Potter says with a smile.


	4. Our Future as it Fast Unfurls

The dates—with the clients, that is—continue and new suitors are brought in. (Draco is trying valiantly not to think of his outings with Potter as _dates._ ) The lessons run dry and turn into lectures on what they’re all doing wrong that’s keeping them from being wed. The late-night visits with Potter also continue, along with the one on one interviews. Draco’s not sure which he likes better.

There’s a definite thrill in Potter showing up under the cover of his invisibility cloak, taking Draco away from the stuffy mansion and off on some little adventure. It’s usually never anything more exciting than a night out in an empty, lush field, or getting fish and chips in some quiet hole in the wall in the city, but Draco relishes it all the same. The moments are quiet and easy; they sap the stress right from Draco’s head. And the soft, shared smiles aren’t half bad either, Draco’s willing to admit.

At the same time, anytime Potter stops by for an interview, he’s almost always inadvertently rescuing Draco from another lecture. Draco no longer feels the need to be so formal in the interviews; he knows Potter won’t publish anything Draco doesn’t explicitly give him permission to. Hell, Draco even manages to undo the top buttons of his extravagant robes and slouch, letting his back relax from the constant tension.

Draco hides his smile in his napkin under the pretense of dabbing at his mouth. Mr. and Mrs. Eyrie eye him suspiciously but Draco pays it no mind. He knows Potter will be by tonight, as he always is; a kick of adrenaline races through him at the thought. He’s not sure how they haven’t been caught yet, but he doesn’t really care.

The rest of the early lunch passes silently save for the chime of silverware against plates.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Mr. Eyrie speaks just before they’re all about to stand and depart. “Mr. Potter is here for another interview.” He’s too proper to let any of his disdain really trip through his tone, but Draco hears it anyway. The slight twitch in his lips speaks to a sneer he won’t give into but it’s enough.

Draco nods. “Thank you, Mr. Eyrie. Is he in the usual drawing room?”

Mr. Eyrie nods and says, “You’re excused.”

Draco wipes his mouth a final time and folds his cloth napkin primly on his cleaned plate. He stands, gives a slight bow, and then strides off. All the while he can feel gazes burning holes in the back of his elaborate robes.

True to form, Potter is waiting in their usual space: a little drawing room set aside for things like tea and private discussions. Potter raises his cup of tea clumsily with a grin.

“Potter,” Draco greets, mostly to see Potter roll his eyes. If Draco had thought needling the other man when they were schoolhood rivals was fun, it hardly compares to this. The friendly sort of back and forth, the kind teasing and relaxed jabs at one another. Draco lets the door fall shut behind him and takes his usual seat across from Potter. “You were just here two days ago, I’m surprised to see you so soon.”

“I’ve got news,” Potter says simply, though when he sets his tea and saucer down, they clatter against the table. It’s then that Draco notices Potter is bouncing his leg nervously, and his hands are shaking slightly. Potter doesn’t wait for Draco to inquire further; he only takes a deep breath and announces, “I’ve got a story coming up in America.”

Draco’s grateful he hadn’t taken a sip of his tea yet. Not only would spitting it out in surprise be superbly ungraceful, but his stomach is souring as Potter’s announcement sinks in. “Really?”

Potter nods. He looks hesitant to say anything else.

“What about this?” Draco asks. His neck burns slightly as Potter’s eyes narrow in on him, and he hurries to add, “The article. You’ve been working on it for months. Surely you wouldn’t scrap it all.”

“I was thinking the trip to America could be how it ends.” Potter stares at him and says nothing else.

The panic in Draco’s chest starts slowly. At first, he doesn’t even notice it over the annoyance at Potter coming here, dropping this news on him, being so cryptic like he has any right to play these sorts of games with Draco. The longer Potter stares at him—and therefore, the longer Draco stares back—the less the annoyance burns. Panic overtakes it slowly as realization dawns on Draco.

“You want me to come to America with you?” Draco asks in a voice barely above a rasp.

Potter smiles that sideways, goofy sort of grin that Draco at once hates and secretly adores. “Yes.”

“You’re fucking barmy,” Draco tells him seriously.

“Am I?” Potter says. There’s no venom in his tone: he speaks calmly, even as his leg never stops bouncing, his hands still shaking. “You hate it here. Not just this place, but London. I know you do.”

Draco fists his hands in his robes and looks down at his still-steaming tea, cups charmed to keep it warm.

“So come to America with me. Get away from it all.”

Draco swallows the rising lump of panic in his throat and tries to picture it. He has no idea what the states are like; he’s never been and never cared to learn. It would be new and unknown. He’d be so far out of his depth Potter might as well be suggesting Draco fly to the moon. The idea of being on new, uneven ground is nearly as bad as the thought of staying here to be married off like a prize to be won.

Draco doesn’t realize he’s swaying in his seat until Potter’s crouched at his side, reaching for him and murmuring soothing things. “Potter,” he rasps. It’s a plea, but Draco doesn’t know if he wants Potter to continue or stop.

“You know, I actually _enjoy_ it when you call me Harry.”

Draco shakes his head as, embarrassingly, his eyes burn. He knows what he wants, because he sees it reflected in Potter’s own horribly earnest green eyes. “I can’t,” he says quietly.

“You can.”

All the same excuses Draco’s been giving out for weeks come tumbling to the tip of his tongue and he swallows them down. Admissions like _“I’m scared”_ and _“What if it doesn’t work”_ and _“You don’t mean any of this, we’re hardly friends”_ try to escape and betray him as well. Draco bites his own tongue hard enough that he whimpers in pain, flinching away when Potter’s hand reaches for his cheek, searching and gentle.

Potter pays the flinch no mind and lays his hand against Draco’s cheek. “C’mon,” he says quietly. “We could go, right now. I’ve got my cloak, got a portkey ready to take me back to the office.”

And god, doesn’t that sound tempting? Getting away from this place for something more than a late-night excursion or a pompous date with some irritating sod. It’s quite literally all Draco’s been dreaming about since he got here, being able to leave again, being able to breathe freely.

Still, he says a little louder, “I can’t.”

Potter’s face draws into tight, unhappy lines and Draco drops his gaze. “You can,” Potter says again and Draco wants to ask why he isn’t mad, why isn’t he shouting why isn’t he just lifting Draco over one shoulder and dragging him out anyway. “I’m not going to force you,” Potter says, tone measured.

Draco blinks. He stares at his clenched fists and watches Potter from the peripherals of his vision.

“You could do this, Draco.” Potter stands and his touch falls away from Draco, leaving him cold. “I’ll send you a copy of _The Quibbler_ when my story hits, yeah?”

Potter apparates on the spot.

Draco’s fists are clenched so tight his nails are digging red crescents into his palm. He’s sure he’s close to breaking skin when one of the servants knocks on the door and opens it slowly, asking after him.

“I’m fine,” he says. “Mr. Potter took his leave.” Draco stands and his legs barely shake as he walks across the room and out into the hallway. “I’ll be in my room.”

Draco doesn’t wait for some kind of response—for all he knows, he’s due for another lesson or lecture or date—and takes to the stairs. No one is meant to apparate within the walls of the Eyrie home, and Draco doesn’t know how Potter managed it. A smile flits briefly to his face, just as he reaches his bedroom door, when he thinks, _the rules never much applied to Potter, anyway._

The smile vanishes when he catches sight of a crumpled piece of parchment sitting on his bedside table. Draco approaches it slowly and picks it up with gentle hands.

The scrawl is just as bad as he remembers from school: legible, but only just, and sharp strokes that are too short.

_Draco—_

_Below are the coordinates for my trans-Atlantic portkey. It’s going to suck, I just bloody know it._

_It leaves in three days._

_—Harry_

Draco’s first instinct is to crumple the paper into his fist and hide it away. His second instinct, far more fanciful, is to hold it close to his chest and pretend like he might follow through with it. He follows his third instinct, which is to shove it under his pillow and head for a bath.

 

 

 

Draco doesn’t know what frustrates him more: that no one is asking what’s wrong when he’s very clearly not well, or that the Eyrie’s seem to be delighting in his sour mood. It shouldn’t surprise him but it does. It’s been two days since Potter’s disastrous visit. Draco had thought maybe the man was joking, and that an owl would arrive saying as much. When that didn’t happen, Draco told himself he could get over it, easily. But his mood has been in a steady decline since the visit and the Eyries keep watching him with approving eyes.

Draco stabs at the mild lamb dinner in front of him and his fork goes skittering across the plate, screeching all the while. He doesn’t need to look up to know Mr. Eyrie looks like a carefully contained bomb, waiting to go off. If there’s one thing the man hates more than anything, it’s poor table manners.

He doesn’t say anything, and when Draco excuses himself and stands, Mr. Eyrie even says, “Your mother is waiting in the sitting room.”

Draco’s whole body jerks in surprise and he nearly takes off running. He regains his composure, barely, then nods tightly. “Thank you.” He takes his leave with hurried steps and has to take a deep breath to reign in the urge to burst through the sitting room door inelegantly.

His mother stands as he approaches; she looks frailer than the floo calls let on, and he gathers her into a hug without a single thought. She clings to him and he clings back.

“Draco,” she says as they sit. “How are you?”

“Fine, mother.”

“I haven’t heard much from you since our last floo call.”

The reminder of the call runs through Draco like ice. He had felt so brave then. So sure of his choice to abandon this ridiculous farce, even if he hadn’t known Potter would offer him such a serious olive branch at the time. “Sorry,” Draco says stiffly. Shame at his own cowardice burns cold in his chest.

“I’m glad you’ve stayed.” His mother lays a dainty hand on his shoulder and squeezes. “The Eyries and I only want what’s best for you.”

Draco doesn’t argue, even though he wants to. He doesn’t nod, or say “thank you” either, though his mother is clearly expecting him to. “I want to do right by our family,” he says instead.

“You are,” she assures him. Her hand on his shoulder tightens again. “There’s already been talks, people are so impressed. Your father is so proud.”

Draco’s vision swims for a second. “Is he?”

His mother nods. “I am too.”

Draco’s mouth is dry when he says, “Alright.”

He makes small talk with his mother a little while longer, discussing things like how his mother is even here (a favor from the Ministry, she tells him, and his mind says _Potter_ ), before an auror steps into the room—one Draco hadn’t even known was around—and tells Narcissa it’s time to go. He stands and helps his mother up. There’s a brief, tense moment where they simply stare at one another, before his mother practically flings herself at him and hugs him tight.

It’s not like his mother _never_ hugged him, but it’s certainly not something he’s come to expect. He wraps his arms around her and tucks his face against her tightly styled hair. He inhales the familiar scent of her lavender perfume and closes his eyes.

For a moment, he imagines what would happen if he did stay, if he got married off, adding some sort of grace back to the Malfoy line. He thinks of his mother at the inevitably lavish wedding—not because it’s wanted but because it’s _necessary_. Marriages for bloodlines always are, at least as far as Draco remembers from his childhood. He imagines his father there, even, though he doubts it could actually happen. Even so, he pictures a proud sneer on his father’s face as Draco says _“I do.”_

When his mother pulls away from the hug and bids him goodbye with a sad smile, Draco pictures doing none of that at all.

“Goodbye, mother,” he says. She nods at him and then her and the auror are gone, off toward the door to apparate back to the Manor.

Draco turns back to the door of the sitting room that will take him to the hall and startles when he sees Mr. Eyrie standing in the doorway. “Sir,” he says with a slight nod.

“I had hoped a visit from your mother might improve your mood.”

Draco gives his best attempt a smile. “I appreciate that, sir.”

“I have a new young man coming tomorrow. I think you two will get along quite well.” There’s an edge in Mr. Eyrie’s tone that sounds rather like _or else_ and Draco suppresses a shiver.

“Thank you, sir.” Draco drops his gaze and forces himself to keep from fidgeting. “I look forward to it.”

Mr. Eyrie levels a gaze at him and says, “I’m sure you are.”

 

 

 

It’s while Draco is haphazardly shoving things into his single suitcase that he realizes Potter never bloody told him _when_ the portkey would be leaving. Only that it would be today.

“Berk,” Draco murmurs to himself. He eyes the wand he nicked from one of the butlers heavily. He’s not sure what kind of tabs are being kept on him, by either the Ministry or by the Eyries. Since no one has demanded his head on a silver platter yet, despite his excursions with Potter, Draco thinks it’s probably fine.

Hopefully.

He slams his suitcase shut and snatches the wand off the bedside table. “You better fucking be there, Potter,” he says aloud to the empty room. He casts one nervous glance back at the bedroom door; he half expects it to burst open just as he begins to apparate, half expects Mr. Eyrie to get a hand on him and one of them end up splinched.

Draco clutches the wand tighter despite the unfamiliar feel of it. A wand is a wand, and it’s his ticket out of here. He white-knuckles his grip on the wand and the handle of his suitcase, thinks of the coordinates Potter had written in his boyish scrawl, and twists on the spot.

It’s been a while—years, really—since he apparated unassisted, so it shouldn’t be surprising that he lands flat on his arse. His ears and cheeks burn, but there’s no laughter or titters of conversation around him. He opens his eyes, unsure of when he closed them, to see Potter standing at the edge of a grassy cliff with a man in Ministry-issued robes.

“Draco,” Potter says.

“Potter,” Draco replies. “Are you going to stand there, or are you going to help me up?”

Potter murmurs something to the other man before darting over. He doesn’t offer a hand to Draco and instead bends to grab him under the arms and haul him standing, despite Draco’s sputtering protests. “You came,” Potter says, voice thin with disbelief.

“What else was I going to do?” Draco’s aiming for derision, but Potter’s face softens and his hands find Draco’s.

“Come on then, you’re just in time.”

“You never told me the time, by the way. Did you know that? Just some coordinates? I could’ve decided to have breakfast before fleeing the country, you know!”

Potter drags Draco in and curls an arm around his waist. It’s quite unnecessary, Draco knows, but he doesn’t object. “I knew you’d figure it out.”

“I didn’t figure anything out!” Draco snaps. “I just took a bloody chance!”

“Good. You should do that more often.” Potter smiles at him and it does something wretched to Draco’s heart. “Not long now.”

The man holding the portkey nods and passes it to Potter. It’s a tattered old notebook, one that looks ready to fall apart with the slightest tug at its binding. “Have a good trip, sirs,” the man says with a wrinkly smile. He takes a step back just as the portkey starts to vibrate and glow.

“Hold on tight.”

Draco doesn’t answer—he’d die before admit he’s already clinging to Potter for dear life. He closes his eyes and tucks his face against Potter’s neck as the familiar tugging in his navel starts, hooking him and getting ready to send him flying.

“I’m glad you came,” Potter whispers just before they’re whisked away.

 

Draco falls against Potter as they land, the portkey falling from the other man’s hand and dropping to the ground. It disappears again in the time it takes for Draco to right himself, though Potter still hasn’t let go of him.

“I’m quite capable of standing, you know,” Draco drawls. He looks at Potter and arches an unimpressed smile. Potter only grins at him, goofy and lopsided.

“You’re going to love the states,” Potter tells him confidently. “I’ve only been booked for a one room flat, though. Hope you don’t mind sharing a bed. Or a loo.” There’s a shimmer in Potter’s emerald eyes that speaks to mischief and delight and freedom—all things Draco has sorely missed. There’s no one immediately around them but not far off are the sounds of bustling streets and busy people. Draco realizes he’s not even sure what city they’ve landed in, and finds he doesn’t particularly care. Potter’s gaze is shifting, changing, the moment is slipping through Draco’s fingertips.

He’s already taken one fairly monumental chance today, he thinks, what’s one more? Potter _did_ say to do it more often.

He bends the slight amount he needs to, to press a kiss to Potter’s— _Harry’s_ —lips. It’s soft and sweet, tentative; it’s so unlike their biting, witty repartee that Draco feels sick for a moment, like perhaps he’s misjudged.

But then Harry’s hand is cupping his cheek and tilting him, deepening the kiss, tugging him closer. Harry’s other hand finds Draco’s hip and warmth bleeds in through the thick fabric of Draco’s robes. Draco gasps into the kiss as Harry’s tongue brushes his lower lip and wrenches back, chest heaving and face flushed.

“Suppose it’s not proper to neck like that in public, hm?” Harry asks with laughter in his eyes.

Draco hauls him in again. “I don’t rightly give a fuck.”

 

 

 

 

 

  


**_Boyfriend Over Bloodline  
_**An Article by Harry J. Potter

_Draco Malfoy sits across from me in trousers that are a hair too tight and a deep green sweater Molly made him. He looks fit, even if he’s staring at me like I’ve killed his favorite pet peacock. I told him he doesn’t have to do this interview, but of course, he insisted. Always being contrary._

_“So, Draco Malfoy. You’ve caused quite a ruckus in the Wizarding world as of late.”_

_Draco shifts in his seat across from me, looking rueful but pleased. “I suppose so,” he agrees._

_“How are the states treating you?”_

_Draco rolls his eyes. “I think you know full well how it’s going, prat.” Even so, Draco leans forward and says, tone clipped but warm, “Business is thriving. The US office of_ The Quibbler _is a smash hit. I’m proud to be one of the lead editors on staff.”_

_“I’m sure you are.”_

_Draco flips me two fingers. “Why did I marry you again?”_

_“To make an honest man out of me, of course. It’s the proper thing to do.”_

_Draco stands. “I’ll show you proper—”_


End file.
